


You Don’t Know [how you betrayed me]

by ayebydan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Community: hp_drizzle, Drinking, F/M, Gen, HP Drizzle Fest 2020, Little Hangleton, Murder, Torture, Wand Theft, World War Two, background family - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:46:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25965322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayebydan/pseuds/ayebydan
Summary: Tom Marvolo Riddle meets his father on a cold and wintry night. He never meant for things to unfold the way that they do but there had been something inside him that wanted to investigate where he came from.
Relationships: Merope Gaunt/Tom Riddle Sr.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 13
Collections: HP Drizzle Fest 2020





	You Don’t Know [how you betrayed me]

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the mods for running an amazing fest. And all my love to @Celebrusc who listened to me whine about this for literal months and then did a beta job on it with short notice at the end. And fixed all my pluperfect tenses because I can only do them in French despite English being my first language. Oh and the rangers vs scout runners thing is real and clarified by Cel too. In WWII, our Scout/RangerGuide system was used to send messages around the country but latterly it was only the female Rangers who were doing it because the boys were big gossips who kept reading their own missives. These teams of kids/young adults were also trained to help evacuate people and support them in the country with foraging and making camp fires ect.

Tom Marvolo Riddle meets his father on a cold and wintry night. He never meant for things to unfold the way that they do but there had been something inside him that wanted to investigate where he came from. His Uncle's information had been fascinating in more ways than one. He had been curious, if outraged, to find out that his mother had fallen in love with a Muggle. Slytherin wanted their bloodline to run true, and yet his mother had fallen in love with the handsome lad down the road. Learning his Mother was foul looking and hardly able to practice magic had been a blow and that also makes Tom curious as to his own magic. 

What could this Father of his have possibly provided to Tom’s own self?

That is what causes the detour from the grove of trees he had been hiding in to wait and down towards the local village and its pub. His Uncle is not going anywhere given the number of hexes and curses that Tom has him locked under. Using his Uncle's own wand at that. Ignorant fool. What wizard in their right mind hands over their wand to a boy just claiming to be their nephew but with hardly any proof? Tom is almost insulted to have gotten away with it so easily. If anything, the whole expedition gives him more understanding of his mother's family too. Why they chose to live so close to Muggles he does not know. Perhaps the village grew around their land? Perhaps the village offered them puppets to manipulate for their purpose? Perhaps they were and are just _weak_. It hardly matters. Tom had not come for information on the Gaunts this time. The time he had staked out his Uncle was enlightening enough. 

Or so he tells himself. 

Plus, blending in with Muggles comes naturally to him as does alcohol from when he was sent back to London each summer. Many things that would turn Headmaster Dippet's brains are normalised to him from when he is sent back to Muggle London each summer. 

He never means for his Grandfather to be in the local pub as well but he recognises him straight away.

How can he not when they are but mirror images of each other? Three examples of the same face at different points in time. He had hoped to spend the time assessing his father without the rest of his family. Previous research had led him to think that his father rarely left his Grandparent's home, but perhaps that should be more that he rarely leaves it _alone_. For research, Tom thinks to himself, perhaps dear Uncle Morfin was not a great source. Alas, Tom takes what he can get.

Tom wearily approaches the bar in his oldest school trousers and shirt as he takes the two men in. 

"Ye old enough fer a drink lad?"

Tom turns on the bartender and sneers, "I hardly think this place would be worth the effort if I wasn't. Besides, can you really turn down the profit in times like this? I didn't think so. Pint of bitter, _please_."

A gentleman slouched over the daily crossword raises an eye at him but says nothing more. A glance from Tom at a cast aside page reports more bombings in the bigger cities. He hopes the orphanage is gone by the Summer.

Dippet cannot send him back to a place that no longer exists after all. 

The bartender places his drink down and a side of nibbles alongside. The old building creeks under the force of wind, rain and thunder but no one seems to pay it much mind. Used to it then. Tom nods politely and offers him a tip with his payment. The fool will never know it is transfigured from ashes until Tom is long gone and he will not have the capacity to work out what happened anyway. Too many curious eyes turn on him so Tom hops up onto a stool by the bar and pulls his pint towards him.

"Just off work lad?"

Grinding his teeth, Tom turns to the newspaper holder and nods, "As much as I can be. I'm a runner. I'll gather the reports from this village and that is my day wrapped up once I get it delivered on the lines later."

"Thought it was just the girlie Rangers they were using for that now. Too many of you lot gossiping and such. You must be rather reliable to still be in use," the old man grumbles half into his last bits of what Tom assumes to be boiled beef scraps. Tom's mind reels and he curses himself for not thinking about how it will look to regular Muggles for a man old enough to drink not be in uniform. It doesn't matter though. This village seems too sleepy for that overall. The man merely glances up again and nods towards the pint, "Cheeky one then?"

"We have to find something in the war don't we? Take what we can get?"

"That is true lad, that is true. Want to see the daily?"

"If you do not mind," Tom purrs with a smile as he drags the paper towards him. Mindless fools is all that he can conclude as he reads and sips and keeps an eye on his kin. Muggles are just muggles; there is nothing to tell them apart or fight for. Yet here they are all blowing themselves up for nothing. Again. Tom grew up with boys and girls orphaned by the first attempts for Germans and Brits and Russians and French folk to hash it out. Even America had got involved in that one. It never changed anything. Never does. 

Gellert Grindelwald, is as ridiculous as they come, trying to Lord over such people. Tom would just be rid of the lot of them.

He _will_ be rid of the lot of them. 

When Tom rises people will take sides he is sure but it will _matter_. There will be those with him and those who stand against him. 

No one in-between. 

No innocents. 

None of this drivel. 

His pint trembles with a mixture of air raids and Tom's emotion and he seethes. 

*&*

His mind is a pleasant buzz by the time his relatives, as much as they are, exit the pub. It helps that he had a good half of his own, third, pint left when they rose from their chairs having reasoned to those around him that none of his information would get through the lines until the weather eased a bit. A habit Tom has yet to shake is that of always finishing his plate or glass no matter how his stomach feels. One never knew where the next meal was coming from and he spent too many years as a child afraid the water would become contaminated with cholera. Or worse. Throwing it back he takes a moment to feel more dizzy than usual and then settles himself. 

The barman nods his head and Tom takes a moment to pause and slide the newspaper back towards its owner, "Much appreciated, Sir. I need to go get my reports in now but I appreciate the loan." He leaves few real coins with it, proper real ones this time, and nods respectfully before exiting. If anyone remembers him once everyone is dead it will not be as a suspicious character. 

As for the real coin well, not _all_ Muggles are horrendous and he seems a decent sort at least. He also seems to be the sort to have a child at home needing fed and Tom is not so far gone as to want to have that sort of thing on his conscience just yet. 

Guilt still swirls in his belly about Warren. He had only meant to take the beast out to see the true size of it outside the chamber and she happened to walk in. No one had used that bathroom since it was installed as it was never fully functional. Still. He can't change anything now. And the opportunity had been too great. Too meant to _be_.

Then, there is his anger.

His relatives had laughed in the face of the Muggle running the place and the rest of the villagers in the building and thrown cash to pay their bill at the man's face. Coins had fallen over the top of the bar and the tender had said nothing, only nodded and dropped to his knees to collect his coin! Rich and horrendous, Tom thinks. He remembers hoping to sell papers or matchsticks to the rich in London. Before he knew better. He remembers offering to shine shoes. Tom remembers being six years old and hoping that he might earn enough for a candle for warmth, a coin to get a scrap of meat with or even a bone to suck the marrow from! He remembers finally learning to read and everything about him being deemed something not worth supporting. Orphans to get an education? Food? Clothes? Without work? Only a few decades have passed since laws gave children like Tom rights and too many are still bitter. Tom remembers those who don’t want him to succeed. He remembers until his blood boils and he seethes as he stalks his prey

Tom's father and grandfather half stagger along the pathway, if it can be called that at all. Tom prefers the road and notes London is far more progressed than wherever this heap happens to be. The route they take is long and rather extravagant really when Tom breaks it down but his quick mind realises a moment later it is for a reason. They are avoiding the Gaunt shack. A dash of amusement fades quickly. Do others do the same? Are his family, the last of the great Salazar Slytherin now some sort of _joke_?

A fairytale to scare young children? 

Or is it something more?

Tom shudders as the rain comes down harder, and more importantly far colder, and with irritation he pulls his school cap from his jacket and thrusts it upon his head. He cannot use magic here again without risking someone finding him but he had well prepped the cap before he left his uncle's dwelling. It is charmed to keep him warm and stop the worst of the rain around his face at least, but it can't do much. His Uncle would never go towards the village. Never need such protection so he cannot use that wand either. Cursing himself for not better preparing his school shoes or coat he continues his stalking of his family. 

*&*

"You're getting older, Tommy. Can't stay single forever you know. Would break your mam's heart if she thought she was going to die and leave you alone," overhears Tom Riddle as he catches them up some. Grinding his teeth he resists the urge to pull his wand from his pocket. Or his uncle's. But his own is the one that calls to him to harness its explosive power and use it to _express_ himself.

His father needn’t have been alone. From what he got from the Orphanage over the years his mother had shown up heartbroken muttering without sense about a husband who had abandoned her. This ignorant fool could have had a family! _Tom_ could have had a family. Sure, it would have been half-blooded and he might never have found out the true power in his veins but sometimes the parts of his soul that are still young and not darkened and dead yet cry out for that chance. That part of him would swap this life for that. Graduate from Hogwarts school sacrificed to have his mother greet him home fondly and have his father proud of him. Get a regular job and earn a living and blend into the background without knowing what it means to have the very bones of your ribcage chill. 

It is a nice thought for a moment and he hates himself for it. He has heard enough from his Uncle to realise that his birth is the result of a love potion. The only piece of magic his pathetic mother could muster and she wasted it on some _Muggle_. He is loathe to admit it but in the same circumstances Tom would probably have fled too. That does not, however, mean he will have any sort of pity for his family. His father could still have taken Tom. He would still have been raised by Muggles and he might still have been hated but at least he would have been fed and warm. And he would not have spent years being paraded in front of rich barren couples looking to fill the gap in their lives. He might still have known rejection but the continuous enforced idea that he was now too old and not good enough. He still remembers the looks changing in the warden’s eyes when he reached around five years old. The chance is lost, Tom, and you will spend your childhood here in the dark and cold.

So bitter and deep inside his own irritation Tom almost doesn’t notice they have almost reached the house. He has to hurry his steps forward while waving his Uncle’s wand to conceal himself further as he slips into the large Manor unnoticed. 

He expects staff but none appear and his silent spell to check for life confirms only three others. Father. Grandparents. Either they have slipped from grace or Tom overestimated them. It hardly matters. As his Father and Grandfather take the time to remove their soaked clothes and hang them up Tom takes time to pull himself together. He is contemplating his next move when a female voice queries if the others have returned and they confirm it and head for the room off to Tom’s right. 

This is his moment. 

He gives them five minutes or so to get comfortable and _then_ he makes his entrance. 

The noise is beautiful and he revels in it until he waves the wand and slams the door behind him shut and everything stops. 

It just, _stops_.

"Who a-are you?" It comes from his father who looks from the wand to Tom and back again while he backs up against the wall where he had been checking that the blackout curtains were firmly in place. 

"Who am I? Well I am Tom Riddle. Tom, Marvolo, Riddle to be precise. I think you knew my mother? _Merope Gaunt_?"

The older man shudders, his eyelids flickering, and he points a shaking hand at his son and then to Tom himself, "Don't speak her name her...her. That-what-"

"That what? Witch?" Tom taunts with delight, before he shirks himself out of his coat and crosses the room to settle it down on a radiator. His grandmother flinches as he walks past her. He offers her a crooked smile. "That is what we call the women. I am a wizard. All rather simple really. As is my story. Time to listen to it don't you think? Although it does seem you are catching on rather quickly. Another drink perhaps? The men have certainly had a few. I'll pour us all one shall I?"

He doesn't wait for an answer before prowling across the dining room once more to the cellaret and sneering. Of course these people have such a thing. They have everything and anything Tom had only dreamed of as a boy starving in the cold and dark. As he thumbs his way past bottles of wine and port looking for something more, well, common he hears his relatives whispering to each other furiously. Aware whatever he does cannot draw too much _attention_ to the old dump he spins on his heels quickly with four glasses and a bottle of gin. 

"I would get the tonic and then ask the Lady of the House for fruit but we did not get fancy stuff in the Orphanage so I do not count myself a fancy person. Straight will do. Or as they say where I go to school, neat," grins Tom as he waves his wand and then forces a full glass into each of his relative's hands. It is bitter and yet so _lovely_ on his own tongue. 

The more horrified the look the more delighted he feels. 

"I think it is me you are here to talk to," stammers his father, his face matching his son's too much for young Tom's comfort. He hopes he never looks as pathetic and scared. "Let them go. We can go back to the pub. Or take a walk."

"I think not, Father. You have deprived me of so much already. Now you deny me my grandparents? I have yet to even learn their names. Or at least I hadn’t until this evening when I heard that I must be the third Tom of the family yes?"

His grandmother drops her glass and that is when Tom pulls his Uncle Morfin's wand from his pocket again and sends it lightly onto a quickly summoned table in front of her. The woman looks ready to faint and Tomhad no doubt he looks simply animalistic as he advances on her. 

"No one ever did tell me your name though, Grandmother? Tell me. Tell me _right now_."

"Now list-"

" _I'm not talking to you!_ " Tom roars across the room at his father who shrinks back into his seat. The group falls silent and the rain on the old windowpanes sounds ominous in the background. The lights flicker above them and Tom scowls and conjures several lit candles as a contingency. Shrieks erupt from his audience but Tom is far too distracted strategically placing his candles round the room so that he appears more dramatic. He makes sures that all of the blackout curtains are in place and working as he goes but also shares nothing of this information. 

Intimidation is half theatrics after all. 

"Now, where was I? Oh yes. Finding out the names of my family. Grandmother?"

"M-my name is Mary but I...I d-do not understand who you, I-"

"Mary. Lovely. As for me, well, I am sure that my father can fill you in while I have a drink," Tom drawls before falling into the armchair he conjures as he falls. Seventh year Transfiguration stuff and there is a part of his mind bored with taunting muggles that wonders if Professor Dumbledore would be impressed. 

"I think it is obvious isn't it?" Thomas Riddle Senior snaps after throwing back his gin. Perhaps it is the belly already being full of alcohol which gives him courage or perhaps it is anger. Either way Tom's grandfather rises unsteadily to his feet and crosses the room, glowering at his grandson on the way past, and snatches the bottle of gin from the cellaret and returns to his seat. He takes his time to fill his glass before topping up his son and wife's and then slamming it on the table Tom had conjured and shoving it towards him. 

Tom sneers but appreciates the backbone. At least something decent had come from these worthless flobberworms. 

"Tom here knocked up that harlot in London and this is the consequences coming to bite us on the arse. So what is it you want boy? To prove your magic tricks are real? Money? Simply to shame us? You are clearly not after an invitation to Sunday dinner!"

"Tommy please, I do not think we should antagonise him," hisses Mary across the sofa. 

"It seems grandmother was the one to give me a mind of my own, gentleman. You are scared. You are not scared. Who cares? Not me. NOW. I want answers as to why _YOU_ abandoned my mother!"

And before anyone can quite react to Tom Riddle, the middle if you like, he is writhing on the floor in pain and his son is looking utterly delighted. 

Grandparents scream and protest and Tom laughs more and more. Aware that his father is a Muggle, Tom eases off and sips at his gin and watches. 

His family are fascinating specimens. Like more reactive flobberworms, he distantly thinks. 

“Ready to talk now Father?”

“W-w-w witchcraft!”

Rolling his eyes Tom steps forward and shoves the glasses of gin into his grandparent’s mortified hands and off the table. Filled once again. Given as a warning this time.

“Yes, well it would be. I thought we covered that hmm? Still, I am a human am I not? You knew her belly was round with your seed did you not? And still you left?!”

“You know _nothing_! Leave! You are _nothing_ to me!”

Tom glowers at the figure on the floor and then turns his back on him. “I know plenty. I know I grew up in a children’s home while you lived here. Magic. Witchcraft. It does not matter. You are a terrible person. A failure of a man. And...well, I find myself having to be your reckoning.”

“Tom? Thomas...it does not have to be that way. I-I...I did not know about you. I had no idea about anything,” stammers Mary Riddle while looking at her grandson with pleading eyes. She is clutching her dress between her breasts and pulling it close to her as a comfort. “I-I’ve always wanted a grandchild. This magic of yours is...well rather amazing. I could never dream such things exist. My-my husband and son seem ignorant of your skills. I would like to learn. My son is ...spoiled. I’d like to know you. Surely we can talk? Please. We can-”

“I am sorry grandmother but it is simply too late for all of that. I came here for a reason and -no. No exceptions,” states Tom before he brandishes his Uncle’s wand once more. He is not sure whether his grandmother is trying to manipulate him or whether she is genuine. It does not matter. He came with a plan. The ring is in his pocket. He has a destiny far bigger than this. It is not his fault that his father could have been a man and stopped it years ago. 

His grandfather looks determined and almost like he wants to goad Tom so there is no guilt there. His father has had nothing to say for himself. Nothing that matters. Mary makes him pause for a second. 

In another life. 

Perhaps.

*&*

Tom observes the bodies and scofs. They do not look like much, but either way he still needs to get rid of them or stage them at least. The thunder and bomb sirens don’t sound promising and really, if he wasn’t magical they really would be a concern. Well, they are still a concern but he is confident enough that he will hear the whistles in time and apparate out or get a shield up. For Tom it would be more helpful if the Germans could just blow this whole place away. Frustrating to say the least. 

Kicking his grandmother with his toe he confirms the body has no give and he sighs. Maybe leaving them completely is the answer. By the time Muggles think to look they will be mostly decomposed and if there are any questions his Uncle will be the suspect. 

The wand needs to be returned to the shack with Morfin and then his memories dealt with but there is time for that. Enough to check the Manor for anything Tom might need in his last Summer in London. Cash. Anything he can sell. Food if it seems it will keep long enough.

Two birds, one stone. 

Yes, Tom thought, that will do nicely.

He turned back towards the drinks. Might as well wait out the storm in comfort, it was _his_ now after all.


End file.
